


The Grind

by sydneykate



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Anxiety Disorder, Awkward Sexual Situations, Drug Use, Drug-Induced Sex, Elliot Alderson - Freeform, F/M, Gen, Hacking, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Mr. Robot - Freeform, Possible Spoilers, Psychological, Sarcasm, one nights
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-11 00:08:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4413293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sydneykate/pseuds/sydneykate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kate thought she was just being nice to a customer and Elliot didn't intend to cause any problems outside of his target. Now Kate's in trouble for something she can't comprehend and Elliot is struggling to keep himself functioning long enough to fix the problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not particularly thrilled with chapter. Likely will get polished at some point.

Morning for me began at five A.M. with red blocky numbers glaring in the dark along with a repetitive siren blaring into the stillness. I watched the offending digital clockface of my phone '5:01', hoping I'd lose the staring contest, close my eyes, and fall back to sleep. 

When the noise didn't stop, I was forced to stretch out my hand from the warmth of my blanket and blurrily feel around for the power button on the side of my phone. Sliding snooze on the touch-screen had come to mind, but I cleverly turned down my touch-screen sensitivity when abuse of this invention rendered me late to work yesterday; now reading '5:07'--what happened to all the numbers in between? I found the button, held it down, and sat up in the dark, eyes trying to adjust to the idea of seeing. 

When five thirty had rolled around I was already showered, hair had been pinned up, uniform thrown on, and I was just stepping out the door. The building I'd moved into was only 5 floors, but with no elevator. Moving everything in last week had proven to be a task I wasn't entirely up to when faced with wanting my couch up in my living room. I'd left the couch in the first floor lobby while I looked for help, but upon my return it was gone. Someone in this building, probably someone on the first floor...took a couch...someone stole a couch--who steals a couch--my couch? 

This thought plagued me every time I walked through the lobby on my way out and visions of some undeserving, jobless, bald man reclining on it fueled my walk 8 blocks down to The Daily Grind--work. I'd slosh through the wet snow, boardering on angry and wanting to be understanding. What made it hard to drop it was that this was the first of almost all my belongings to go missing. My bed frame was taken as I'd dragged up my mattress. My table and three out of four chairs went missing--though they were taken from the little u-haul I'd rented. All I had was a chair, mattress and linens, clothes, a corner table, and my box of kitchen stuff. The thoughts ended as I put my hand on the glass door and inhaled the warm scent of coffee.

I'd been here a week and so far it seemed ok. I'd always heard awful things about New Yorkers; rude, inability to enunciate, and always in some big rush. It wasn't particularly true. The place was always busy, but customers were nice for the most part; calling me things like 'dear' and 'honey', they mostly found a nook and buckled down for an hour or two, and I typically understood everything they'd said. The accent was real. Amusing too--but I tried not to smirk. I'd come from a state with an accent stereotype and the title massholes and went either of those things. 

"Good morning! Welcome to The Daily Grind, what can I get for you?" I surprised myself with my cheerfulness and decided to just ride it with an accompanying smile. The man who approached the counter gave a half smile of his own and while keeping his head facing me, stared down at the counter. The smile faded and stammering, followed by awkward silence, lingered for some time. A red headed man in his forties peeked out from behind the awkward younger man and asked if I'd take his order--his impatience evident. 

My attention turned back to the man in front of me, eyes darting up and down. I'd noticed then how extremely exhausted he'd looked; bags under his eyes, pale, waxy skin.

"Do you know what you'd like?" I'd offered in an even tone, giving one last chance before I had to move on to the next customer. 

He'd put a hand on the back of his head, parted his mouth to say something and continued looking at the counter.

I didn't want to be rude, but I couldn't afford to get in trouble for the hold-up, either. "Why don't you grab a seat and I'll be able to help you when the line goes down?" I offered a reassuring smile--half wondered if he was touched in the head and didn't want to be insensitive. 

"Oh...kay," he finally spoke and seemed relieved somehow. He looked up at me for a moment and then somewhere else. I followed his eyeline-my nametag, "Kate." He put his hood up and went to the back--probably to sit at one of the small booths.

People poured in well past eight A.M. It was like this every weekday--so far, Monday was the worst with nearly twice as many customers with what felt like half as many co-workers. The constant demand to repeat orders and rush around gave way to a suddenly empty cafe. My two co-workers drifted around doing various cleaning tasks while discussing how they're drug-lords pushing caffeine on addicts. It was a bit of an exaggeration, maybe too much so for my humor to grab hold. 

I breathed the breath I'd been holding for what felt like all morning and beganmy morning ritual of checking my social feed until I remembered the awkward man from earlier. Lost somewhere in the back of the restaurant, I imagined, he probably felt forgotten and resorted to eating the paint off the walls. I ducked under the brown checkered counter to look for him. 

Against the back of the cafe, at a corner table nested into the wall, he sat with his hood up and eyes glued to his phone. I was surprised he'd waited all this time--I felt badly for having forgotten him.

"Hi," I gave a small wave, "remember me?"

He didn't acknowledge me and continued looking at the phone. I opened my mouth to try again and he'd spoken up, "medium coffee, milk, no sugar and a medium chai latte with almond milk." Suddenly he a mastery of the English language. 

I wasn't entirely sure what to do in this situation. I knew how to make his coffee, I knew to take the twenty he had folded up on the side of the table even though we aren't a sit-down, I knew I should tell him I'd have it for him in just a moment...I didn't know how to respond to someone who was--like this. Void of humanity. I wouldn't call it awkward as much as I'd say careless and uninterested in participating in society.

When in doubt, stick to politeness, "I'll be back with that in a few." I slid the twenty off the table and tried to think of how to interact with him upon my return.

Less than five minutes later I had a cup in each hand and was back at his table setting the duo down. I watched him, still fixated on his phone, and tried to think of something to start a conversation. He'd be social whether he liked it or not.

"You must really have trouble getting going in the morning, huh?" I laughed lightly and was met with a questioning look.

"Hmm?" His attention held for more than a second this time and I found myself to be the one stammering.

"Oh, uhh, the coffee. I mean them both. The coffee and chai--and--" I stopped trying when he smirked, letting me know that I was the awkward one at this point. "Right," I fished out his change and placed it on the table, "this is yours."

"No."

"Yes," I cocked an eyebrow, "it's your-"

"It's yours." He said plainly and powered down his screen.

"Oh...thank you?" My new goal was to end this conversation as soon as possible, run behind the counter, and pray to the coffee-bean gods that he wasn't a regular and I'd regain my composure.

"I'm ok with mornings."

"What?"

"You said I have trouble getting going in the morning," his speech patterns were broken, holding onto some words just slightly longer, "but I don't." 

Though it looked like he was looking at me, I recognized he was looking at something past me, behind me. I turned to look and saw nothing. When I looked back at him, he went from looking actually at me now, to the table, and then back at me, trying out eye contact. This in turn made me self conscious.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't mean anything with the morning comment-"

"You drink chai.?" It almost sounded like an accusation in the guise of a question. I thought about it for a moment--I did drink chai occasionally.

"I guess, but-" I cocked an eyebrow.

He slid it towards the empty seat across from him, maintaining eye contact better than I, and smirked again, though less strangely. He seemed smug. He was smug. What was he up to? "You told the woman ahead of me that you love chai-" in answer to the question I never asked.

"Smooth," I folded my arms and shifted my weight to one foot, "what's the catch?"

He feigned a look of shock and shrugged, "No catch, just chai." It almost felt charming if not for the face he'd made, as if it were painful to say.

"I'm at work, can't sit. Sorry." I allowed my voice to a stern tone.

"Places like this have Wi-Fi," he shifted.

"Okay?"

He pressed his fingers together, "not here, though. Why is that?"

"We have Wi-Fi, just not for customers." 

"I know. I, uhh, need to check my email, data's capped." He held up his phone for a moment as if by showing me his phone I'd understand his plea.

I half wondered if this is why he tried with the chai, "E-mail?"

He nodded. Something about the size of his eyes and his sunken in features made him look puppy-ish. I threw up my hands, "It's coffeebean and javajavajava, all lowercase," I looked around to make sure my co-workers weren't around, "just for a few minutes, right?" 

"Yeah, I'll just check it and done." He seemed reasonable, polite--but sketchy. What was the worst he could do? Play Candy Crush and download mp3s?

The login was Randy's; fellow co-worker whose login I had to use to ring up anyone's order until I get one of my own. Also may be using it to surf around during down-time, but everyone did that here. It wasn't particularly the most original login, but I'd known Randy for a few days and nothing about him was original. I'd keep that opinion to myself.

I left him and the chai at the table and returned to the daily grind myself, occasionally peeking my head around the corner to see if this guy was done checking his "e-mail." About an hour later he pattered off, giving a slight wave and a "thanks" that sounded uncertain.

Work ended at six that night. The eight block trek felt longer in the dark, the cold felt colder, but I was thrilled with the idea of sleep. I was in love with it. I made it to my brick and concrete building, climbed five flights, and landed on my mattress. I'd been bitter earlier for my bed frame being stolen, but at this point, I'd been grateful for having my mattress. 

I'd woken up before the alarm and stretched out under the covers. It was the first time since the move I didn't feel exhausted. I drew my appendages back in and hugged my pillow and inhaled deeply. Things finally felt ok. I didn't feel rushed. I didn't feel down. I'd just enjoy the moments before the alarm, watching the sunlight crawling up the adjacent building. 

Then it hit me. Adrenaline and panic broke the peace. Of course I'd felt rested, the sun was up. It was winter! Sunrise happened at 7. 

"Shit!" I repeated as I got up, skipped the shower and got dressed. My brain was wracking over why my alarm didn't go off. I'd remembered setting it. I'd remembered letting the sensitivity again.

I grabbed my phone and woke it up to see the time, "update in progress"was what I got accompanied with a status bar nowhere near being filled.

"Great! Just great!" I didn't have time to solve the great mystery of exactly how late I'd be, so I'd chosen to book it down the stairs and to work. About two blocks away I noticed commotion; cop cars flashing lights, a crowd of people, and The Daily Grind's doors propped open in the snow.

"What the?" My curiosity had over taken me. Had something happened? It seemed exciting. It was then that my phone vibrated to life--the update must had finished. 

When I'd woken it up, my desktop had been replaced with my work picture and a headline "Suspected of cyber attack.--" I couldn't read anymore. My hands began to shake and I looked back at the scene not too far, "Oh my god." 

I'd stumbled forward with anxiety creeping up, leaving a sour taste I my mouth. I had hit my phone's home button, to see the time '8:23' and all of the missed calls. Some from work, some from the area, my mom. My phone vibrated to life in my hand, reading 001, but I wasn't entirely sure what kind if number it was. 

"Hello?" When I heard my voice, I'd realized how freaked it I'd been.

"Go home, stay inside." It was masculine. Short. Demanding.

"What? Who is this?" I covered the phone with my hand and ducked closer to a nearby building.

"It doesn't matter who I am, what matters is you getting back to your apartment unseen." The stern tone broke down and sounded more concerned than frustrated, but the frustration was there--I didn't know why.

"No, I'm just going to explain-"

"That's not going to work, they're not going to believe you. Listen," I heard wind whipping past his phone, "the cops are the least of your problems." Something about his voice was familiar. The longer he spoke, the more I recognized this speech pattern.

"Who is this? Who are you?" I looked around frantically.

"I'm going to help you."

"Help me by answering my questions," how did he get my number, "What the hell is this?" I unconsciously kept moving forward, only aware of this when my voice got high and I realized that someone would hear me. 

"Look, Kate, I'll fix this-"

"Fix this?" I crossed the street, still whispering, "Kate? How do you-" I started to piece together who it was, how he'd known my name, "Why would you fix this? What is this?" I tried my best to whisper yell. "What are you going to fix?" It took me a moment to fully realize that if he was offering to fix it, "You? You did this?"

"yea, not to you. Not on purpose."

"Not to me? It feels like it's to me! My picture's online saying I am some cyber person!"

"Not on purpose," anxiety was rising in his voice and I'd almost felt badly, "Look, you just have to-"

"What did you do?"

"You need to get going. It'll be hard to help you in prison."

"Prison?" I sank to my knees, causing some stares. "Oh my god, I'm going to jail." My hand touched the heavy snow.

"Get up."

"I'm going to jail and I didn't do anything." I'd begun to cry and hugged myself. "What am I supposed to do?" I asked to no-one specifically-, maybe god. Was he listening?

"Get up," came from behind me, coupled with a pair of hands trying to pull me onto my feet. I stood up with assistance and turned to see who it was guiding me forward with a hand on my back.

He. It was a he. Him. That awkward Wi-Fi guy from yesterday. He had another hoodie pulled over his head, his eyes still slightly bulgy with bags under them. I shrugged him off and he withdrew quickly, seemingly more upset than I.

"Don't touch me." My knees buckled and this time the anxiety would not settle for being a mild discomfort; I leaned forward and wretched, puke splashing onto the slushy sidewalk. My body tried to go down again. My mind kept trying to comprehend how much shit I was in. I knew it had to do with me giving away the Wi-Fi login. No-one needed to tell me. He retried touching my back and holding me up by my arm and I tried shrugging him off. I cried.

"Hey, hey, it's ok," he tried shushing me and putting my arm over his shoulder, "let's get you home first."

I didn't need to tell him where home was, we'd limped there under his guidance, and it was the most unsettling thing that he'd known where I lived up until he entered my door-code into the key pad, then that became the most unsettling thing. 

We'd gotten up the five flights and I sat in the hallway, trying to breathe, while he fiddled with the lock and opened the door. His face held a determined look until he'd shut the door behind him and led me to my mattress. I'd gotten down on it without mentioning how horrifyingly stalkerish he'd been having known where I'd lived, key code, and Howe to pick locks, and sobbed into my pillow instead. 27 and I was sobbing. 

He went to put a hand on my back-I could see from my peripherals, but took his hand away before making contact, and chose to tilt his head and look empathetic instead.

"I didn't do anything," I cried out, "You did." I fiddled with the blankets, trying to cocoon myself. "Just go the fuck away. Turn yourself in." I'd found a comfortable position curled up around my pillow, "What am I supposed to do?"

"I'll fix it. I'll fix it," he continued to look more and more anxious, perhaps a reaction to my tone. I still wasn't sure if he was all there, or who he even was. He just messed up my life and it was my fault for giving him the Wi-Fi login. Even if I pleaded my case, I feel like I'd be nailed for it. I tried to figure out who'd be worse than the cops? Probably gangs or the mafia. Was the mafia even still around?

I tried to stop sobbing in front of him and he managed a hand on my shoulder--though I felt awkward for him. "What am I going to do?"addressed to nobody in particular.

"It's ok," his hand still on my shoulder, "I'll fix it."


	2. Wi-Fi guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kate tests the validity of her situation, Elliott shares a coping skill, Darlene pays a visit.

I had fished out my stainless steel kettle from the solitary box of "kitchen stuff" and stared it down while I waited for it to boil. It was in my mind that tea would calm my nerves. Yes, somehow caffeine would be the ticket to calm. No, routine was. Routine and meditation; the red chair I kneeled on, the one that didn't walk off on its own, was balanced on two legs as I outwardly debated if I'd imagined all of it.

     "It's guilt. I did something wrong, went to bed and," the water was starting to roar into a boil, "my mind is telling me I was wrong. It's punishing me. None of this is real," I reasoned to my distorted reflection on the kettle.

     I had looked at my phone again, just then, just a quick peek to see if I'd willed the nightmare away. Nope. I was the second link down for "cyber terrorism attack in New York--was attack political?" My employee picture displayed when I pressed the link. There was promise of an upcoming interview with my family...

      "Fuck!" I screeched, balling up my fists and grabbing my head. In this, the chair had lost its balance, or I had, and crashed forward onto the floor, followed by my face.

      Surprised to still be alive, I attempted to stay in routine and make tea--without further incident. While it had steeped, I'd found my phone on the floor about 4 feet away and it had faired better than I had: my knuckles were bruised and bleeding from being wrapped around the chair when it had fallen and my forehead had a gash from the brief interception of the linoleum flooring.

     I pocketed it and with my black cat cup in hand I walked the apartment, now curious if the Wi-Fi guy was there-- hiding behind the shower curtain, in the close--someplace creepy. But he wasn't. I checked my door lock, the one I'd sworn he'd picked in front of me while I broke down--that, too, was fine.

      Everything was as I'd left it. I had only made it til 4pm, only 8 hours after I'd found out I was in serious shit, before I had concluded I couldn't take it anymore. How was I supposed to survive the day as anxiety kept flickering up, as I braced myself with every noise I'd heard in the hallway--waiting for the door to be broken down. Then it'd hit me. When it had, it was strange and alluded logic; if I were in trouble with the law, wouldn't the police have called? My mom? Someone? Wouldn't someone have shown up by now? They wasted no time showing up to work. My job.

       That guy, maybe be hacked my phone. Maybe that's why the update. Maybe these CNN updates were bogus. When I thought about it I didn't even know why the police were at work. Maybe looking for him. For all I knew, he'd been some sick asshole who played this elaborate hoax on me. Why would he? Maybe because he's fucked. He's weird and awkward. That was probably it. I'd been spending all this time panicking and it's all a lie.

Fuck this.

      I'd known at some point earlier in the day my mom had called, so said my recent call history, as did my work, and various other numbers...but for some reason no one had called since. The police hadn't called. My phone never rang. Alarm never went off. I was pretty sure he'd hacked my phone. Was unsure how or when, but nothing else made sense-- I called my mom.

     The phone rang for a moment before an odd series of beeps followed by "I'm sorry, your call cannot be completed at dialed. If you'd like to make a call please hang up and try again." So I did, many times, with the same result. I couldn't understand why this was happening. I had 4 bars, I had the right number-- then my phone rang. Not my mom's number.

     "Hello?" I waited to be told the building was surrounded, to put my hands up-- but no one responded. I could hear intermittent breathing and the unmistakable sound of a hard swallow, "Hello?"

     "What are you doing?" It was unmistakably the Wi-Fi guy and his assertive tone was very meek and more suggestive than authoritative.

      Apparently authoritative enough, "Nothing, I'm just-"

      He sighed, "I wouldn't,"

      "Of course you wouldn't, then your game would be over."

      "My game?" There was a pause, "Call her if you'd like but she told WKBZ that she always knew you'd do something like this and tried to warn your fiancee--"he paused, "she's gonna turn you in."

     "It's not going to work" I was unsure how he'd known about the engagement, or my mother's--"you're so full of shit."

     "Me?" He scoffed, "I'm full of shit? You've looked at the news feed?"

      "You hacked my phone.?" I had it set in my mind to be confident, but I wasn't entirely sure it was possible and worried I'd sound like an idiot.

     "Yea," his voice was even, unmoved, "good guess."

     "It's not a guess, I know what you're doing!" I didn't actually know.

     I had hung up the phone, and raced out of my apartment down the stairs and out the door. When I'd reached outside, it'd become apparent I was barefoot, standing in snow. My phone rang, same number, "What?"

     "I can't protect you like this." His tone changed, was this concern I'd heard?

    "Protect me from what, you?" My confidence rose as I walked down the street without anyone recognizing me.

      "Look, it's my fault you're in this, but" he paused yet again and hung onto 'uh' for the moment, "but it's going to be really hard if you're in jail."

      "Me? I'm not going to jail. I didn't do anything," I rounded the corner and there was a cop car with two navy blue officers turned towards each other, moment of truth, "I'll prove it."

      "Where are you?"

    

     "Out, can't you tell where I am?" I approached the officers, still engaged, "you're pretty much a stalker."

    He was actually the very definition of one; he'd known where I lived, how to get in--nothing would have surprised me at that point. He probably knew what kind of ice cream I liked and my license number.

    "I could turn on your gps and find you using maps--didn't think you'd do this."

     "Excuse me," I stood behind the male officer, who slowly turned and parted his mouth to say something. Everything was going to be fine. Wi-Fi guy's game was over. That was until I saw recognition in the officers face followed by placing his hand over his holstered weapon and reaching an arm out towards me, "fuck."

     "The cops?" He asked through the phone still pressed to my ear.

      "Drop the phone, hands over your head," the officer shouted.

    "Wait, what?" I stepped backwards, "I didn't do anything-" I began to explain as I watched the officer undo the snap over his gun. Wi-Fi guy had been right, dammit. "I'm in trouble," was it too late to take everything I'd said back?

      "Probably should run-" So I had, quickly around the corner, arms out, phone in hand--feet freezing cold. I heard the sound of slush being splashed behind me and decided to assume it was the police. I put the phone to my ear, "they're chasing me."

     "Yeah, they're going to chase you." His voice was calm, must be nice.

      I passed my apartment building and turned the other side of the block, meanwhile hearing the officer yell "where's my back-up?" I had no qualms that they weren't around. That officer didn't look like he was in his prime, nor did what I saw of his partner. Perhaps since I wasn't a track star and barefoot we'd be evenly matched.

      "Help?" I yelled into the phone.

      "I did, I made you invisible, You chose this."

       "I take it back," I whined, remembering he'd been the cause of all of this, "I can't run much further."

     "Are you hungry?" He seemed unsure of the question.

     "The fuck?" I crossed the street embedded in a herd of people and had taken the opportunity to look behind me. Where'd the cop go? "He's gone?"

    "You were spotted getting into a silver Toyota Camry," his words were muffled.

    "Are you eating?" I slowed down.

     "Hey!" The voice came from above me, not my phone. I stopped and looked up, unable to see anything. "Here," I could see a face on the other side of a screen, "come up."

      He disappeared from the window and a moment later the door buzzed loudly. It felt surreal. People were walking by me, around me. No-one else knew. I was barefoot in New York. In the snow. I sighed and went up the stairs into the building.

     It was a lot like my own building--narrow halls, no elevator, musty. I remembered the phone, "Where now?"

     "Stairs." Still muffled. Unphased.

     I let out a sigh I'm sure he'd heard and went through the fire door, up the stairs, and back through a door into a tiny hall. His head peaked out of his door, cheek full of something he was chewing on.

      Apprehensively, I approached the door and he disappeared inside. I followed.

      The apartment was small--utilitarian. Basic kitchen with ugly green cabinets connected to a dining room /living room with a grey leather couch. He had a mattress on the floor with a grey comforter, a few dressers, and two monitors on a nearby desk. It all screamed lonely-psycho, "What is this?" I motioned to everything.

     "Uh, it's my place, if you wa-" he cut himself off, the gaps between his words growing distant, and stared at my face, "What happened?" He pointed to his own forehead.

    I decided to ignore the inquiry and have a melt down. "This is real. This is really happening!?" I stopped critiquing his apartment and chose crying, "I'm a criminal."

     "Nah, you didn't actually commit a crime. It'll get straightened out." I was unsure if that was meant to be comforting, especially when he took one more look at my head and sat at a computer facing a window. He motioned to the couch.

      "I ran from the cops, that's a crime."

       He didn't turn to look at me, but shrugged, "Yeah, I guess you are a criminal..."

     I stood in the middle of the room, "Right, I can't stay here," quickly looked at the couch he'd motioned to, headed to the door, and heard Wi-Fi guy get up, "I'm going home." I wanted to be trapped in my own walls, not his.

      "Probably not a good idea to go out there," he met me in the middle of the room, "they'll be looking for you."

      I put a hand on the door, "What do I do? Freak out here?" My voice was getting louder, even I knew it was only a matter of time before noise complaints followed. He knew it too. I could see it all over him; he was stressed, anxious.

      "I got something." He looked relieved with the thought and went to a wooden dresser by his bed. He had come back with an orange pharmacy bottle that he held up and shook.

      "What's that?"

       "It'll help," his eyes were wide, fixed, unblinking, "it's safe."

      He sat back on the couch and on a side table took out two blue pills and started crushing them with a razor blade that'd been there; I had wondered how frequent a thing this was. A few moments later there were two parallel powdered lines and he was looking up at me. Was the long-stare an invitation?

      "I'm not doing that." I didn't do drugs. Wasn't going to now. He snorted a line through a cut straw and tilted his head back, "you're just going to get high? I thought you were going to fix this?"

     "It takes research and time," he let out a deep breath, "you'll feel better." He held the straw out.

     I debated whether or not to take it. Then, I'd thought about the fact I was being called a cyber terrorist, had just ran from the police, couldn't go home, and was now in the very same apartment of the man who'd singlehandedly screwed up my life. It didn't seem right that I'd be losing my mind while he'd be stoned. I grabbed it from him roughly and knelt by the table, then froze.

      "Do you know what you're doing?" He leaned on the arm of the couch and stared sleepily at me, "pinch your nose, do it in one hit." He demonstrated with an invisible straw and watched partially amused as I'd tried.

      It burnt. Behind my eyes, in my nose--but before I could question how this was supposed to relax me, I'd felt strange. Slow. I smirked, "whoa."

     "First time?"

     I nodded and sat back on my legs, "that was fast..."

      "Quicker delivery, you'd never get this swallowing it." Very matter of fact.

     He learned forward on the couch and was very close to my face. I wasn't sure what to do with the sudden space invasion. His big eyes, partially lidded, looked back and fourth at me.

     "Right," I tried to hold onto the mentality that I was mad at this guy and he ruined everything, "not happening," I leaned back, getting about a foot of distance, "You know, surprisingly you're not so annoying." He'd possibly looked cute from a certain distance away.

      He smiled lazily, "you're still you."

    "Meaning?" I could hear thudding in my ears, my arms were heavy.

    He leaned closer, getting down on the floor, and kissed me. It'd been agonizingly slow, as to question if he could. It'd started out softly until I'd slid my tongue in his mouth and found his. I must had answered the question; he put a hand behind my head and pressed his face into my own. I pulled back, "the hell?!"

    "Lean back," he demanded, still monotone, "you'll feel better."

      Last time he'd said that was five minutes ago; it left me high and considering letting this happen, "What are you going to do?"

     He tugged at the band to my pants until he found the button and started undoing it with one hand. I parted my mouth, it'd felt hard to breathe with the anticipation looming over me. I laid back.

     In a daze I'd found myself naked, and Wi-Fi guy was between my legs. I tried to sit up, the feeling of fingers inside of me and his tongue flicking was overwhelming and I needed it to stop. "Hey," it had come out breathy.

      He looked up at me and retracted himself. "You ok?"

     He crawled up over me until his lips brushed my own. He leaned himself into my hip and it was then the pit in my stomach tightened.

    "Yeah," I rose my hips up and pressed into his erection, "You?"

     He groaned, closing his eyes and parting his mouth. "This," his hand wandered down over my breast, "needs to happen."

    Fully agreeing, I had put a hand on his neck and he'd tensed. "What?"

     He grabbed my hand, put it over my head and put his weight on it. I wasn't sure what to make of it, but I didn't care. "In, now." It came out more desperate than I'd wanted.

     He sheepishly grinned at my response and repositioned--resting the head of himself partially inside me. I squirmed under him, trying to move myself so he'd go in further. I moved to touch his face with my free-hand, he'd been looking up for quite some time, and that arm joined my other one--pinned over my head.  

     "What's wrong?"

     I looked up, straining my neck, to see a long legged, dirty blonde woman by the door. I regained my modesty quickly and tried to move my hands.

     "Oh, don't let me stop you." She had an accent, I couldn't put my finger on it--or anything for that matter. Her hand gestures were big. Dramatic.

      Wi-Fi guy sighed, still resting at my entrance, "Darlene, not now."

     "Elliot, don't you even care why I'm here? What is she, Wonder Snatch? We have a problem." She paced a few laps and Wi-Fi guy's--Elliott's--body tensed. He looked down at me, debating whether or not to get up I supposed.

      "You can get up, now." I said, trying to get a handle on the situation and myself.

      "Nah, she's going," he faced her, uncaring or unaware he had been naked raised his voice, "get out!"

     She planted herself on the couch and folded her arms. "Not going anywhere!"

     Another sigh and an apologetic look in his eyes left me to wonder for a moment until he'd thrusted hard into me and quickly found an unforgiving rhythm.

     It'd been impossible to forget that someone else was in the room, possibly watching. He'd hit my wall and I moaned aloud. She was probably definitely watching.

    "I can't, not like this." I mumble.

     He'd pulled my arms tighter above my head and stared down at me, face unchanging. It was already weird by this point, but getting weirder. I had seen Darlene get up and snoop through the fridge, seemingly ignorant to what was happening in the middle of the room. I was pulled back from this though when he strained into me, arched his back and then relaxed onto me.

     Darlene returned to the couch and Elliott got up off of me and slopped into bed. I laid there for a moment, naked, tired, and wanting to feign death--maybe she'd go away? Sense started to filter in as small little bits a verbal reasoning. I grabbed my head, "fuck."

What was I doing?

     "You sleeping there?"she'd asked, popping her head over the couch for her doe-eyes to meet my own, below.

    I sighed, "don't know," and was starting to lose sense of caring as the adrenaline died down and tried to be just as casual about the ordeal. I closed my eyes--hoping things would be clear later.

**Author's Note:**

> I really like Elliot as a character thus far in the series and plan on exploring a bit of what the series may towards the end of this season. If you like it and want more leave a kudos--usually drives me to write more when encouraged. Any questions or concerns etc, comment. Tata


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